My daughter knitted eighty hats for ill childrenand then my mother-in-law threw them all out, saying, “Shes not my flesh and blood.”
My daughter lost her father when she was just three years old, and for years, it felt as though we were two against the world. Her name was Charlotte, and her gentle heart was the centre of my days.
When I married Richard, everything changed. He treated Charlotte as though she truly were his own: he packed her lunch for school, helped her build castles from cardboard, and read her favourite stories every night before bed.
In every way, Richard was her father. But his mother, Margaret, refused to see it that way.
Once, I heard her say to Richard, Its sweet that you pretend shes really yours. Another time, she told him outright, Stepchildren never quite feel like family. But the remark that chilled me to the bone was, Your little girl looks like her dead father. That must be difficult for you.
Richard always tried to hush her, but the snide comments kept coming, despite his efforts.
We managed by keeping our visits brief and our talk politeanything to keep the fragile peace.
But then, Margaret crossed a line, shifting from cruel remarks to something far worse.
Charlotte had always been a kind soul. When winter drew near one year, she announced her plan to knit eighty hats for children in the London hospices who would be spending Christmas far from home. She learnt how to knit from videos online, and used her pocket money to buy the softest wool she could afford.
The routine never changed: homework, a quick snack, then the gentle click of her needles as dusk settled outside.
I was deeply proud of her generous spirit. Never did I dream how quickly it all could unravel.
Every time she finished a hat, Charlotte would show it to us, then tuck it gently into a large canvas bag by her bedside.
When Richard had to travel to Manchester for work for a couple of days, she had just begun her final hat. Shed nearly finished her goal.
But Richards absence offered Margaret a perfect opportunity.
Any time Richard was away, Margaret routinely ‘checked in’ on us, often for reasons I could never quite untangleperhaps to see if the house was kept as she approved, perhaps to scrutinise how things ran without him. Id long stopped guessing.
That afternoon, Charlotte and I came home from the grocers. She dashed to her room to pick out colours for the final hat.
Five seconds later, she let out a scream.
Mum! Mum!
I dropped the shopping and ran for her room.
I found her curled on the floor, sobbing fit to break ones heart. Her bed was bare, and the bag of hats was gone.
I knelt beside her, pulling her into my arms, trying to understand her muffled words. And then I heard the clink of a teacup behind me.
Margaret stood there, sipping from one of my best china cups, as if auditioning for a part in a Dickens serial.
If youre looking for those hats, I threw them out, she said flatly. What a waste of time! Why spend your money on strangers?
Threw away eighty hats for sick children? I breathed, barely believing the words.
Margaret rolled her eyes. They were ugly anyway. Clashing colours, botched seams. Shes not my family, doesnt represent us, and you encourage her in this pointless pastime.
They werent pointless… Charlotte whimpered, new tears leaking onto my shirt.
Margaret sighed melodramatically and swept off, leaving Charlotte collapsed in a storm of tears.
I wanted to run after Margaret, to give her the dressing down she deserved, but Charlotte needed me more. I wrapped my arms around her and held on tightly.
When she finally calmed, I searched every bin on our street and even asked the neighbours. The hats were nowhere to be found.
That night, Charlotte cried herself to sleep. I stayed with her until her soft breaths steadied, then finally let myself break down in solitude in the lounge.
I almost rang Richard several times, but stopped each time, certain his work required all his attention.
That decision unleashed a tempest that would upend the course of our family for good.
When Richard returned, I immediately regretted not telling him sooner.
Wheres my little lass? he called out, voice full of warmth. Did you finish that last hat while I was gone?
Charlotte looked up from the telly, but at the word ‘hats’, broke down again. Richards face fell. Whats happened, Charlotte?
I drew Richard aside and told him everything. His expression shifted from weary confusion to horror, then to a silencing fury Id never before seen in him.
Ive searched all the bins; theyre not there. She must have dumped them somewhere else.
He went straight back in to Charlotte, pulled her into his arms, and promised, Im so sorry I wasnt here. But I swear to youGrandma will never hurt you again. Never.
He kissed her gently, fetched his coat and keys, and without another word to me, left the house.
When he returned nearly two hours later, I rushed down asking what had happened, but found him on the phone.
Yes, Mum, Im back, he said in a soft but deadly voice. Why dont you come over? Ive got a surprise for you.
Margaret arrived not long after.
Richard! I hope this surprise is worth it. I had to cancel my dinner plans, she sniffed, breezing in past me.
Richard hefted a giant black bag.
When he opened it, I peered inside and sawunbelievablyall of Charlottes hats.
It took me nearly an hours rummaging through the bins out your block, but here they are. He held up a pale yellow hat, one Charlotte had finished first. This isnt just a childs hobbyshe was trying to bring joy to children who have nothing. And you ruined it.
Margaret sneered. You went bin diving? For a bag of ugly hats?
Richards face hardened. Theyre not ugly, and its not just about the hats. You didnt just criticise a projectyou hurt my daughter. You broke her heart.
Oh please! Margaret snapped. Shes not your daughter.
Richard paused, looking at her as though he was seeing the real Margaret for the first time.
Get out, he said, his voice quiet as stone. Were finished.
What? Margaret gasped.
You heard me. You dont see Charlotte, and youll not speak to her again. Ever.
Margarets cheeks turned crimson. Richard! Im your mother! You can’t do this over some wool!
And Im a fatherto a ten-year-old girl who shouldnt have to be protected from her own grandmother.
Margaret turned to me, her voice rising. Are you truly going to allow this?
I met her gaze. Absolutely. You chose to be spiteful, Margaret, and youre lucky this is all you lose.
She stared between us, realising, finally, that she had been defeated.
Youll regret this, she spat, then stormed out, slamming the door so hard the pictures rattled on the wall.
The days that followed were eerily quiet. Charlotte didnt talk about the hats, nor did she pick up her knitting once.
Then, one afternoon, Richard came home with a massive box. Charlotte was eating her cereal when he set it before her.
She blinked up. Whats this?
Richard opened the box: inside, new wool, knitting needles, and packing supplies.
If you want to start againIll help you. Im not much good, but you can teach me.
He picked up a pair of needles, holding them awkwardly. Will you show me how?
For the first time in days, Charlotte smiled.
Richards first hats were, if were honest, wonderfully wonky. But within a fortnight, Charlotte had knitted eighty hats once more, this time with Richard at her side. We sent them off by post, entirely unaware of the storm that was about to return.
A few days later, an email arrived from the hospices head nurse, thanking Charlotte for the hats and saying theyd brought real cheer to children on the wards.
She asked if she could post photos of the children in their new hats on the hospices social media. Charlotte, blushing with pride, nodded.
The photos went viral.
Suddenly, people from all across England were commenting, wanting to know about ‘the lovely young girl who knitted hats for others’. I let Charlotte reply herself, from my account.
Im so glad they liked the hats! she wrote. My gran threw away the first batch, but my dad helped me make them again.
By the end of the day, Margaret was on the phone, sobbing hysterically to Richard.
People say Im a monster! Theyre sending me hateful messages! Take down that blasted post!
Richard didnt even need to raise his voice. We didnt post anythingit was the hospice. If you dont like that people know the truth, its your own fault for acting so dreadfully, Mum.
She wept louder. Im being bullied! Its horrid!
Richards reply left no doubt: You brought this on yourself.
And so, Charlotte and Richard spent every Saturday morning knitting together, our home filling again with the soothing clack of needles over warm cups of tea. Margaret would send a text at Christmas or on birthdays, never apologising, always asking if we could make amends.
And Richards answer is always the same: No.
At last, our home is peaceful again.
